


Objectively

by misbegotten



Category: Torchwood
Genre: M/M, post-episode
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-27
Updated: 2010-01-27
Packaged: 2017-10-06 17:51:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/56273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misbegotten/pseuds/misbegotten
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Objectively, it's fair to say that Ianto Jones threw himself at Jack Harkness. Set after "Kiss Kiss, Bang Bang"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Objectively

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bjewelled](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bjewelled/gifts).



Objectively, it's fair to say that Ianto Jones threw himself at Jack Harkness. He'd never considered himself particularly successful at pulling, but a skin-tight pair of jeans did wonders for his confidence. And his posture.

He was gambling with Lisa's life, after all, and the stories about Harkness were common coffee break gossip at Torchwood Tower. Yvonne Hartman hated Harkness, which made him perfect fodder for speculation. More interestingly she couldn't control him, for reasons nobody could pinpoint, so she kept him contained in the wilds of Wales where he did whatever he wanted with his small band of fuck-ups. And the most common coin of gossip -- Harkness flirted (_at least_) with anything that moved as long as it was sentient.

So when Ianto finally got his invitation to Torchwood Three he fully expected Jack to cash the cheque he'd written with his body.

But then Jack didn't. And Ianto was rather... put out.

He needed Jack to be predictable. He needed them all to be predictable. In the end, Ianto concentrated on grey, boring thoughts and willed away whatever had sparked Jack's interest enough to bring him into the fold. It seemed to work. Jack's apparent indifference made it easier for Ianto to slip into the shadows, and he quickly adapted to the new constants of his façade: Jack flirting habitually, Suzie carefully studying him, Tosh's natural kindness, Owen needling him, Gwen taking him for granted. It was easy because in the end he wasn't going to be there long, was going to fix Lisa and disappear permanently, away from the reach of Torchwood.

Objectively, the absurd logic of his plan only made sense because he left the rational part of his brain in the fiery remnants of the Tower. Somewhere amidst the scorching pain of Lisa's heated metal components against his flesh and the choking blanket of smoke and dust and ozone that didn't clear his sinuses for days afterward, Ianto lost a good portion of his sanity.

It seems to have gone permanently missing. Since That Night in the Hub, his last misguided love letter to Lisa, he has flipped through the books that Owen chucked at him (a bit harder than necessary, but without his usual acerbic commentary) -- books with melancholy titles such as _Those Who Are Left Behind_ and _Surviving Survival_. He's considered therapy, rejected the bottle, and found some comfort in the careful portioning of his life into routines. He knows that he's fucked up and has never really dealt with it and that it will keep coming back to bite him in the arse at the most inopportune times. It turns out that Torchwood Three was the right place to come after all -- he's a perfect fit. Ianto suspects that Jack recognised him as a natural the night he wooed a pterodactyl with a chocolate bar.

Objectively, he made the choice to stay. Not after That Night -- that wasn't free-will, but rather Jack's magician's force of Retcon or penance. Still, Jack was there every day of his suspension, even if they simply sat in silence in Ianto's dismal flat. Jack never said a word about Ianto's hands shaking like an addict in need of a fix, and he helped without complaint the day Ianto hauled the unopened boxes of Lisa's belongings to a rented storage shed. That counted for something. Those were the first steps that led to the rest; to that first horrible day back in the Hub, to Jack beginning to train him as a field agent, to feeling comfortable in his own skin again, to feeling comfortable in an entirely different way with Jack's expert tutelage. Jack helped Ianto put his life back together and asked for very little in return except fairly uncomplicated sex and good coffee.

Life was turning out to be surprisingly pleasant until Jack ripped out Ianto's heart by dying, shattering the perverse comfort Ianto had taken in Jack's supposed indestructibility. And furthermore, he immediately disappeared into the unknown with the time-traveling enigma that was Torchwood's supposed nemesis (Ianto has cursed Hartman and her predecessors on many sleepless nights -- isn't someone dangerous enough that he can banish both Daleks and Cybermen someone Britain wants on its side?)

Regardless, Ianto made his choice to stay. There was a good chance that Jack wasn't coming back. Not even Tosh would be able to coax Mainframe to hunt him down if he implemented the programs he crafted in preparation for a new life with Lisa. On the heels of Jack's vanishing act, Ianto had the chance to disappear with his memories intact, but he didn't take it.

Objectively, Ianto has made more foolish choices. But at the moment he's not so sure.

***

It's a very nice hotel room: resplendent in golds and browns, dominated by a lush king-size bed, deep plush carpeting between his toes as he pads barefoot along the length of the glass panel that leads to the balcony. Ianto can see Cardiff glittering in the artificial lights of evening, cars still traveling on the streets below, and pedestrians along the Plass. He wonders idly if he waits long enough whether he'll spot himself or his teammates -- when were they in the Hub? When were they out? The last few hours are a blur, he's had to pay extra to get five rooms (and a first aid kit for Owen) at short notice, and this very nice hotel room is nothing more than a waiting room, an intermission before the next act of his life begins.

Finally, _finally_, there is a soft rap on the door.

Ianto doesn't know what to make of this new Jack Harkness: the one who knocks quietly instead of barreling his way into a room, the one who asks him out on a date and looks at him as though his answer is very, very important. He rests his hand on the solid oak of the door for a heartbeat and imagines Jack on the other side doing the same, but eventually slides the door open and steps aside to allow Jack to pass. Instead Jack stays in the corridor, simply taking in the sight of Ianto.

An eyebrow quirks as Jack observes Ianto's bare feet, though he is still wearing the rest of his usual clothes. "Dressing down, Ianto?"

"I'm on holiday," he answers easily. He consults his mental clock. "For the next eleven hours and twenty-two minutes."

Jack smirks -- one of his favorite games was testing the stopwatch against Ianto's internal chronometry -- but still makes no move to cross the threshold.

"Is everyone sorted?" Ianto asks, because his brain skitters away from the real things he wants to know.

Jack leans on the doorframe and shrugs. He's still wearing his coat, looking strangely formal (Ianto has missed the touch of the rough woolen fabric against his cheek) despite the affected casual air. "The girls are contemplating room service, Owen is watching porn."

Ianto rolls his eyes at the prospect of the creative accounting that awaits him once they can finally get back to the Hub, but says nothing. Instead he watches Jack, normally comfortable infringing on anybody's personal space, but now carefully shuttered. Jack, who is so tactile that Ianto long held the theory he was a touch telepath, with his hands buried in the pockets of his coat. Jack who is now so closed off that Ianto feels a sudden stab of anger at the Doctor or whomever has dumped Jack back in their time with only false bravado and wary eyes for defence.

Jack has clearly been struggling for something to say, and his lips tighten in frustration before Ianto finally reaches out and gently takes his elbow. The flinch that Ianto nearly expected does not come, but Jack's feet stumble as he moves, as if he is sleepwalking. Still, he lets Ianto lead him in and waits quietly as Ianto closes and locks the door behind them.

"Would you like something to drink, sir?" Ianto asks politely, but freezes as Jack's shoulder sag. He wonders what verbal minefield he has stumbled into now and stands motionless as Jack carefully sheds his coat and folds it over the back of a chair.

Quietly, so softly that Ianto can barely hear him, Jack says, "I missed your coffee." Tension mars the line of his stance, and he grips the plush edge of the chair so tightly that Ianto can see his fingers whiten.

Bloody hell, Ianto thinks. How long was Jack gone? What the hell happened?

"Unfortunately, my cafetiere is out of bounds at the moment." He puts a hand on Jack's shoulder (skin so close it burns to the touch) and turns him. Something finally loosens in Jack. Jack's arms go around him, settling naturally along the planes of his back while Ianto grips the cotton folds of Jack's shirt. "Can I interest you in an alcoholic refreshment from the minibar instead?" he mumbles against Jack's neck.

Jack laughs at that, a little too loudly, but it sounds more like the Jack that Ianto remembers and he stops worrying that Jack is going to fall to pieces. Or that he is going to fall to pieces before Jack does.

"Do you want to talk about it?" he ventures, and instantly feels Jack's negative shake of the head.

"No," Jack says dully, but his grip on Ianto tightens. "At least, not yet."

Ianto takes a breath -- the sensation of Jack's skin underneath his fingertips is intoxicating enough that raiding the minibar is redundant -- and steps back slightly. "That's fine," he says simply. He traces the line of one of Jack's braces with his forefinger, then hitches the finger to slide the brace from Jack's shoulder.

Jack immediately captures his hands. "Wait."

Ianto is stung, but tries not to show it. He leaves his hands between Jack's but wonders, a little hysterically, if this is Jack breaking up with him. _Sorry if leaving the planet wasn't a big enough clue for you, Ianto. Or eye fucking my psychotic ex all night._

"I was serious about what I said," Jack continues intently. "I want to take you out. On a proper date."

The corners of Ianto's lips twitch and he relaxes slightly. "I appreciate the thought. But when have we ever done anything in a conventional manner?"

Jack is starting to look mildly exasperated, which honestly makes Ianto feel better. "I want to do it right this time."

Ianto tries to parse the sentence and fails. "Do what right?"

"Us." Jack releases Ianto's hands and twirls his own, in some sort of all- encompassing "us" gesture. "No more 'sir's', no sneaking around. I had a lot of time to think while I was gone and you were, are--" He falters. "I want to try something different."

Ianto has yet to say no when Jack proposes trying something different, but this seems like the wrong moment to point that out. "We don't sneak. We're discreet."

Jack's face falls. "Unless you don't want to," he begins, and Ianto feels quite foolish. There's a gift horse somewhere in the room, and he is peering down its gullet. Perhaps.

"No, no, no," he tries to reassure Jack while thinking furiously. Jack comes back from who knows where -- check. Kinder, gentler Jack wants to take things slowly -- right. Jack turns down sex -- does not compute.

There's a protocol for suspicion that a member of your team has been replaced by a shapeshifter, illusion enhancer, or other disguised alien. Instead of calling for backup, however, Ianto kisses him.

Objectively, there are any number of perfectly sound reasons why Ianto has stayed at Torchwood Three these last few months: a renewed sense of purpose, camaraderie (of a sort) with his teammates, a sense of obligation towards Flat Holm and Jack's other pet projects. But the number one reason Ianto stayed is currently sucking out Ianto's brain through the judicious application of his tongue in all the right places.

Someone breaks the kiss -- Ianto registers dimly that it must have been Jack because his extremities are refusing to cooperate -- and Jack says, somewhat breathlessly, "I _really_ missed you."

Ianto places a steadying hand on Jack's chest. "And yet you want to," he pauses and fumbles for the right word. "Court me?"

Jack throws his head back and laughs, and _there_ is his Jack. "Court, woo, pursue, date," Jack rattles off. "I want us to try 'normal' for a while." His hands have settled around Ianto's hips, but he's made no move to pull Ianto closer.

One of Jack's braces is still hanging down, and Ianto edges the other along Jack's shoulder as he considers the proposition. "So this 'courtship' would involve what -- dates?"

Jack determinedly returns both braces to his shoulders. "Definitely dates."

"And maybe gifts?" Ianto runs his fingers down the length of Jack's chest and is rewarded with a hitch in Jack's breath.

"Gifts could be arranged," Jack manages.

"And eventually sex," Ianto suggests, his mouth close to Jack's. He's pleased when Jack involuntarily licks his lips.

Jack nods, almost imperceptibly.

"But technically we're on holiday for another eleven hours and eight minutes. And as long as we're not on duty we're not 'sneaking around'. So there's really no need to implement this plan of 'normalcy' until then." Ianto weaves his fingers around the braces and pulls them back down Jack's shoulders with a flourish.

A smile plays across Jack's face. "That's true." He bends forward to place the whisper of a kiss on Ianto's lips. "Have I mentioned that I love the way you think?"

"Stop talking, Jack." Ianto is already working on the buttons of his shirt. "I missed you too."

***

Objectively, it's fair to say that Ianto Jones threw himself at Jack Harkness. To his surprise, it continues to work out rather well.


End file.
